


Refrain

by Cardinal_Daughter



Series: Till We Loved [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Requited Love, Romance, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:16:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: Refrain1. Stop oneself from doing something2. A comment, statement, or complaint that is often repeated.Ezra Fell is tired of being so afraid. Human AU. Victorian Era.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Till We Loved [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582882
Comments: 37
Kudos: 332





	Refrain

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This is a thing. 
> 
> This takes place in a vague-ish late 1800s period. Some things mentioned happened within a couple decades of each other, but I smushed them all together for the sake of this fic. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Please keep in mind this story centers around two gay men in the 1800s, when homosexuality was considered illegal, and our two protagonists struggle with this unfortunate reality. It still has a happy ending, but be warned that it is a restricted happiness.)

**Refrain **

The last ball of the season has just begun, and already Ezra Fell is ready to retire to the comfort and solitude of his bookshop where he can be left to his own devices, and not be forced to mingle with those whom he has little interest. He knows he should be delighted to be here: it’s a distinct honor to be invited to such a soirée. The Kensington’s are a prominent family in London social circles, and anyone who's anyone is here. Ezra should be beyond pleased to be included. 

He isn’t. And the only reason he even chose to attend is because he knows his family- who are but a few feet away and have yet to even acknowledge him- would have strangled him within an inch of his life had he refused such a generous invitation. 

Well. That, and the food is always superb. 

He stands toward the back, wishing desperately for the night to be over so he can go home, fix a nice cup of tea, and relax. He sighs and absently adjusts his vest, feeling out of place in his cream trousers, frock coat, and vest. Most gentlemen here are in the standard darker colors, but Ezra tries to avoid those. He has one such suit, that he only wears one specific occasions, and he’s not about to wear it here. No, cream suits him well, and he’s never cared enough about fashion to shift his wardrobe based on what others think might look best. Let them stare and sneer. He has more important things to worry about. 

Only a few people have greeted him thus far, not that he minds. Like the fashion of the day, the social circles of London have never really interested him. None of the men here seem to have any true intelligence among them, and he’s hesitant to speak to any of the young, doe-eyed ladies out of fear they may take his attempt at politeness to be something more than it is, which he _ certainly _ doesn’t want. 

So he stays out of the way, only chatting with a few men he often sees at his bookshop- the _ Mr. Fell and Co. Bookshop and Lending Library, _celebrating its eighth year of business this year, he remembers happily. He keeps the conversations as light and quick as is considered polite. Ezra detests these men, with their narrow-minded thinking and poorly disguised ignorance. But these same pompous men also bring in business, and so he grips his champagne flute tightly, grits his teeth, and twists his lips up in a smile as fake as the manners of the upper class. 

His intention is to stay for an hour or two, make as little small talk as socially acceptable, then feign a headache and take his leave as quietly as he can. It’s his usual strategy; one he’s certain most people see straight through, but no one has called him out on it yet. 

Ezra is pulled from his musings as the band strikes up a polka. Several couples move to the floor and begin the lively dance, while others watch and clap from the surrounding area. Deciding he’s in no mood to watch, Ezra moves to slip away to one of the smoking rooms where dancing is exchanged in favor of cards and shop talk. A few young women glance his way as he passes by them, hoping silently he might ask them for a dance. Ezra makes a concentrated effort not to meet any of their gazes. He doesn’t dance. He doesn’t have the skill nor the grace for it. And at any rate, if he were inclined to dance, he’d prefer a waltz. 

And a gentleman to lead him ‘round the floor. 

He shoves that thought away as quickly as it forms, burying it deep down underneath all the other impure thoughts he tries not to let himself have. It won’t due to dwell on such things lest he become even more sullen and morose and ruin an already insufferable evening. 

He wanders amongst the groups of people, nodding polite _ hello’s _ to those who choose to acknowledge him. None seem inclined to pull him into their conversation, nor is he inclined to push himself into one uninvited, and it’s a perfectly symbiotic relationship, until unfortunately, someone disrupts the cycle. 

A group of gentlemen Ezra is moderately familiar with are discussing the latest scandal to rock London: a recently published political pamphlet that had stirred up the debate on women’s suffrage had been revealed to have been written by a _ woman _. It had caused quite the outrage in more traditional circles, and it seems to be a subject of intense debate in this corner, which is heavy with cigar smoke and unsavory opinions on the topic. 

“I don’t see why she needed to hide behind a man’s name to begin with,” one gentleman huffs through a cloud of smoke, “If she’s so sure of her place in a man’s world, why not use her own name?”

A few others grunt in agreement, and chatter for a moment before the first gentleman, Mr. Huffington, a family with old money but little else, waves Ezra over. “I’m curious what our resident bookseller thinks of the whole mess. You wouldn’t be caught dead with a _ woman’s _ pamphlet in your respectable place of business, would you, my friend?” 

Ezra swallows and twists his hands nervously around the stem of his glass. He’s not cut out for these sorts of things, and desperately wishes for a distraction to get him out of the conversation. Naturally, no such thing occurs, and three pairs of eyes are watching him expectantly, waiting for him to agree with their sentiments. 

Tonight, however, despite his nervousness, Ezra doesn’t feel like putting up with their nonsense. He’s tired and irritable and lonely, and this has only soured his mood further. 

At any rate, it’ll be a story to tell later. 

He clears his throat. “Miss Device’s pamphlet has been quite the best seller, actually,” he remarks with a touch of haughty indignation, “I confess I can’t keep enough copies in stock.”

The men grumble in distaste. “Well, I suppose if one can make some money on this suffrage business…” one man remarks with uncertainty before trailing off. 

“I think we all know I’m not worried about the money,” Ezra says, tilting his chin up just a hair. The Fell’s are a wealthy family, and despite his own social awkwardness, are quite well-respected. “I wouldn’t place it on my shelves if I didn’t think her argument had merit.” 

“So you think _ women _ should be allowed the vote?” Huffington asks snidely, blowing a puff of cigar smoke in Ezra’s direction. 

“Well, yes, of course,” Ezra stammers, “I th- think-“ 

A small commotion catches their attention, and Ezra stops, turning to see what’s going on, and feels his breath catch in his throat. 

A handsome man has entered the main area, causing many of the ladies- and some less discreet gentlemen- to whisper excitedly amongst themselves. While the majority of the men are dressed in their finest black suits with white shirts, this man sticks out with his black and burgundy attire, fashionable and ostentatious and inappropriate. It’s clearly meant to draw all eyes upon him, which it does remarkably well. He saunters in with his top hat under his arm and his cane tapping against the marble floor, and he stops before the hosts and bows with ridiculous flare. 

“So sorry I’m late,” he says to them, kissing Lady Kensington’s hand and nodding to the Lord Kensington.

At that he moves on, greeting others as he passes, before plucking a champagne flute from a tray and meandering his way through the crowd. The music starts up a moment later, and the men with whom Ezra is speaking roll their eyes. “Show off,” one of them mutters, disgruntled. 

Ezra agrees, but without any of the venom. He watches as the man struts about, confident and charming and beautiful, and he feels his chest grow tight with an aching that isn’t just from the fact that he’s forgotten to breathe for several long seconds. He could watch him all night, if given the chance, and never tire of looking at that beautiful face, even if looking is all he can do. 

His attention is pulled away by the conversation behind him returning to the subject of suffrage. 

“Seems to me this woman should stick to what God intended for her. Leave the thinking to those among us capable of complex thought!” 

“And who might that be?” Ezra asks as he turns his attention back, suddenly feeling bolder even as he feigns a soft, innocent expression.

“Now, Mr. Fell, there’s no need for such rudeness.” 

“What’s _ rude _ is dismissing her opinion simply because she is a woman,” Ezra tuts, “Her arguments have great merit- more than I’ve heard from any of you this evening. Have any of you even _ read _ her work?” 

A couple gentlemen murmur choice insults toward Ezra, but Huffington seems unphased, and in fact turns and waves the man in burgundy over. “Lt. Crowley,” He greets with loud and unconvincing fondness, “We weren’t expecting you tonight! Word was you were out of town on business.” 

“My business concluded early,” Crowley says simply as he joins them. “And who would I be to miss such an opportunity to chat with London’s best and brightest.” He throws a knowing look to Ezra as he sidles up to the group and takes a spot directly next to him. It takes a great deal of effort on Ezra’s part not to flinch away _ or _ press closer. He merely holds his position, and glances to the newest member of the conversation, and waits with bated breath. 

Huffington continues. “Well, tell us, old chap, what do you think of this nonsense of women’s suffrage? We’re trying to talk some sense into Mr. Fell here. Surely you aren’t interested in investing in a business that _ defends _ and _ sells _the writings of that blue-stocking Device girl!” 

“I think,” Crowley says lazily, as if having to form an opinion at all is an insult to his character, “That what Miss Device has or hasn’t dangling between her legs shouldn’t discount her opinion on important issues such as the laws that affect us _ all _.” 

The men are taken aback. “Lt. Crowley,” one man, a Mr. Vaughn, gasps, “There is no need for such vulgarity!” 

“What’s vulgar about it?” Crowley asks dryly, “That’s what you’re debating. You’re saying because she’s not shaped like a man she shouldn’t have an opinion. You’re just being a mite more sophisticated about it, but I say if we’re going to have this discussion _ at all, _we may as well be frank, and the truth is you think her inferior because she physically lacks what the lot of you lack metaphorically: a pair of bollocks.” 

With that he dips his head in farewell, then looks to Ezra, which sends his heart tripping over itself in unabashed delight. “Mr. Fell, care to join me for a drink? I’ve some business we need to discuss,” he glances over his dark spectacles to the other gentlemen, smirks, then looks to Ezra expectantly. 

Ezra’s heart is positively fluttering in his chest, a hummingbird heartbeat that he can’t seem to get under control. “Of course,” he manages to say in a sort of mild manner, as if he’d be just as bored with Crowley as he is with the gentlemen behind him. 

They take their leave, a group of middle-aged men staring after them in shock and offense. Once they are around the corner and in a less crowded section of the party where they can talk, Ezra dissolves into a fit of giggles. “Their _ faces!” _ He gasps, hand over his mouth as he stares up at his companion. Quickly he sobers and pouts prettily. “_Really, _Anthony! That was scandalous.” 

“Shut them up, dinnit?” 

Ezra considers for a moment, then sighs. “One can’t argue with your results, crass as your methods are.” 

“You should try it sometime,” Crowley remarks, draining his glass and dropping it on a tray as a servant passes by. He’s instantly scanning the room for another one, and Ezra simply passes his own glass over into Crowley’s hand. 

“I’ll leave the flustering of others to you, I think.” 

Crowley drains the rest of Ezra’s glass. “Probably best. You’re far too much of an angel to tell these men what you really think of them.” 

“Oh, don’t start that again,” he huffs, “I simply have manners.” 

“Are you saying I don’t?” Crowley is smirking, and Ezra wants nothing more than to burn this look into his mind. He is so infuriatingly charming. 

“Possibly.” 

“I’m _ hurt_, Mr. Fell.” 

“You’re a menace, is what you are.” He turns away from Crowley, but can’t help but try to glance back, to see the expression on his companion’s face. As he turns, he feels a breath against his ear, causing him to forcefully bite back a gasp. 

“Then I’ll make myself scarce, and bother someone else for a time.” 

Ezra whirls around to protest, but Crowley is gone.   
  


* * *

  
The evening continues on in typical fashion. Ezra sticks to the walls and corners, watching in quiet awe as Lt. Anthony Crowley saunters from person to person, charming and scandalizing his companions in equal measure. 

Everyone seems to love (and hate, but both require a certain amount of passion which Crowley certainly can inspire) him in the same way they tolerate Ezra. Anthony had arrived in London about eight years prior, and had captivated the interest of the London high society with his nonchalance and devil may care attitude toward social cues and norms. He delights in causing a scene, and while most fathers scowl at him and yank their daughters away the moment his amber eyes glance in their direction, he is equally desired for conversation by those same men. He obliges everyone with equal carelessness, and his aloofness only makes him all the more desirable. 

Ezra sticks to a corner where he can watch the dancing, only interested now that there’s something to watch. Currently Lt. Crowley is dancing a waltz with a Miss Langley, one of the most eligible women in London. She seems utterly entranced with him, especially as she is dancing a closed dance with the most notorious and desired man in the room. Ezra feels a pang of envy as he watches, and before too long he finds he cannot watch any longer, lest he become sick with jealousy. 

Knowing he won’t be missed, he slips out of the room and makes his way outside to the garden, where only one other couple greets him as he walks between the ornately and immaculately trimmed hedges in an effort to get some air and settle the discontent in his heart. 

He nears the far end of the garden, now several hundred feet away from the house, and presses his back against the garden wall and sighs. The house is obscured by tall hedges, but he can still see the faint glow of candles; can still hear the faint traces of a waltz playing. 

Feeling his heart grow heavy with longing, Ezra pulls out his pocket watch and squints to see the time. It’s nearing half past ten, and he thinks perhaps he’s been here long enough that he can leave now without much insult to the hosts or his family. 

Better to go now than to stay and watch what he cannot have. It doesn’t help that after tonight, the season will end. People will leave, engagements will be finalized between couples and announced in due course, and once the weather turns agreeable, it will all start all over again. 

And in the meantime, Ezra will be alone. As usual. 

A tapping sound catches his attention, and he looks up to see Crowley approaching, snake-handle cane disturbing the gravel beneath him as he walks. 

“Thought I saw you slip out here,” he remarks casually. 

“Was getting a bit warm,” Ezra replies, tugging on his cravat partly for show. 

Crowley slithers closer. “I saw you watching me.” 

“You’re an excellent dancer,” Ezra swallows thickly, “I daresay most people in there were watching you.” 

“And yet I only noticed you.” 

A swooping sensation in Ezra’s stomach leaves him breathless as Crowley steps closer, resting his cane against the wall next to Ezra, who then feels warm hands on his waist. “Shame we can't waltz.” 

Ezra gulps, torn between pressing back against the wall or pressing closer to Crowley and his wicked advances. “Might be a bit too scandalous, even for you.” 

Crowley smirks. “True. And I’ve seen you dance, Mr. Fell. You’re abysmal.” 

Unable to help himself despite the insult, a small smile forms on Ezra’s lips. “I’ve always preferred reading to such… frivolous pursuits.”

“Ah, but dancing can be quite a lovely use of one’s time,” Crowley says as he presses closer, his lips ghosting against Ezra’s. “Though the dance I want to do with you isn’t appropriate for a ballroom floor.” 

Ezra can feel the hard, hot length of Crowley’s arousal pressing against his own, and despite the alarm he feels of them being somewhere so potentially _ public,_ despite the risk of being caught, he wants this too much to voice any such concerns. His worry- always present and accounted for- has no choice but to make way for the desire that is boiling within him, and he can’t help the sigh that precludes his question: “What sort of dance would that be?” 

The grin on Crowley’s face is nothing short of wicked. “I’m so glad you asked.” 

With that, he sinks to his knees with a grunt of pain. Before Ezra can ask after him, Crowley begins to unbutton the flies of Ezra’s trousers and even as he gasps and throws his head back, he stutters, “We _ can’t! _We’ll be caught!” 

“Not as long as you’re quiet,” Crowley says as he settles back on his haunches. He unhooks the suspender rivets and then tugs the trousers down just enough to reach his prize. He pushes Ezra’s shirt up, wadding it up under his vest before sliding his tongue over the head of Ezra’s cock. 

“Anth-_ oh!” _Ezra gasps as the warm, wet heat of Crowley’s mouth slowly engulfs him, and he is helpless to do anything more than drop a finely manicured hand into Crowley’s hair, tugging just on the edge of too hard. He knows he’ll muse Crowley’s hair, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Crowley’s tongue is doing delightfully wicked things to him. 

He teases for several minutes, sucking and licking at his leisure, as if they have all the time in the world and aren’t at risk of being caught at any moment by a wandering guest. While Ezra isn’t going to be missed, Lt. Anthony Crowley is a distinguished and sought after guest, always sure to bring the life and heartbeat to any party he chooses to attend. Surely someone will notice his absence? 

Ezra voices this, in between soft, repressed moans that spill out unbidden as Crowley does something exceptionally delightful with his mouth. After a moment, he pulls away. “I don’t care who misses me,” he hisses, “I’m with the only person that matters.” 

At that, he resumes his task, swallowing Ezra all the way down, and causing the man to choke out a broken sob before he quickly slaps a hand over his mouth in a mix of horror and shameful delight at the thought of someone hearing. It’s dangerous, to be caught like this, but oh, he could die a happy death with the memory of Anthony Crowley’s lips on him.. 

He quickly feels his release building, and it’s a bittersweet escalation. He never wants this moment to end: this moment where he is the center of Crowley’s world. But he knows it must, and they must resume their proper places. But in this moment, in this garden where it’s just the two of them, everything is bliss, and that bliss overtakes Ezra, whitehot and warm and amber-gold, and with a startled gasp he comes. 

Crowley swallows him down with an ease like he’s done this a thousand times before, then calmly stands and dabs his mouth with a burgundy handkerchief. Ezra watches, mesmerized, before finally sinking back into reality, and with a sigh he tucks himself back into his trousers and rights himself. 

“Would you like me to-“ he nods toward Crowley’s own erection, but the man shakes his head. 

“Been gone too long,” he shrugs, “And at any rate, I wanted to enjoy _ you. _I’m pleased enough, for the moment.” 

He steps closer and brushes a kiss to Ezra’s cheek; so soft and innocent after such a lascivious act. “Perhaps later you can return the favor?” 

Ezra nods, a touch too eagerly. “_Yes._” 

From how close they are, he can feel the smirk on Crowley’s lips. “But in the meantime, try not to think of me going back inside, knowing that I’ll be talking to others with the taste of you on my lips. I’ll drink wine made all the sweeter from the salt of your spend, and I’ll hold a lovely young lady or two on the dance floor wishing it were you. Yours is the touch and taste I’ll carry with me until I can have you again.” 

With that he backs away, and with a wink and a nod, Crowley turns and heads back toward the house. 

Ezra sags against the wall, and knows he has no choice but to go home now. He’s positively ruined for anything else. 

* * *

Once safely locked away in the flat above his bookshop, Ezra changes into a nightshirt, fixes a cup of tea, and crawls into bed with the pamphlet by Miss Device. He reads for an hour or so, until his eyes grow bleary and his thoughts cannot fight the memory of Crowley’s lips around him any longer. He replays the moment in his mind, and while it certainly stirs up another bout of passion within him, he knows his own hand won’t be nearly as satisfying, and he doesn’t want to sully the memory so soon with his own lackluster attempt to pleasure himself to it. 

Instead he ignores his arousal with the diligence of a saint, blows out his candle, and goes to sleep. 

Some time later, he’s roused by the rustling of cloth, and the feeling of the mattress dipping beside him. He shifts, groans, and glances over his shoulder to see Crowley settling into bed next to him. 

“What time is it?” He asks through a yawn. Crowley freezes. 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers in apology, leaning forward to press a kiss to Ezra’s cheek. “I came in through the back,” he says, “Figured if anyone asks, I was too drunk to make it back to mine.” 

“At this rate, you’re going to be known as the town drunk,” Ezra remarks, voice heavy with sleep before he rolls over to face Crowley. “And I thought you said you were too busy to make it to the Kensington’s.” 

Crowley shrugs as he sits up, grabbing the tartan blanket that’s neatly folded at the foot of the bed and spreads it out over them. The weather is growing cold, and Crowley is desperate for warmth. Once he’s satisfied, he lays down, shifting so he can curl up against Ezra. He winces as he does so, a sharp exhale through his nose signaling to Ezra that he’s in pain. Ezra frowns, knowing full well he overdid it with the dancing, amongst… other things. 

“Missed you too much,” Crowley remarks simply. “I wanted to see you.” 

Ezra feels warmth spread through him, and he holds Crowley even tighter, loving how they fit together so perfectly. “Well, we certainly _ saw _ each other.” 

He feels the soft laugh Crowley releases, warm breath against his chest. “Can I help it if I’m extremely attracted to you and wanted to get my hands on you the first moment I could?” 

“I rather remember your _ mouth _ more than your _ hands_.” 

“Careful, angel. That was almost _ crude.” _

Ezra scoffs sleepily. “No worse than you… _ fellating _ me in a _ public garden!_”

“You enjoyed it.” 

“Well, _ clearly,” _ Ezra huffs as he presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple, “But we must be careful. Lovely though it was, it’s quite risky.”

“Always careful, me,” Crowley says softly as he shifts to kiss Ezra gently on the lips. 

“We both know that isn’t true,” Ezra says dryly, then sighs. “I’m sorry to be so fussy. I’m a bit on edge, I suppose. Rumor has it there is going to be _ another _ trial. It’s only the third one in five years, but it makes me uneasy nevertheless.” 

“I know,” Crowley breathes, rubbing Ezra’s back soothingly. “I know. But it’s going to be alright, my husband.” 

The endearment seems to settle Ezra. “I love it when you call me that.”

“I’d make it official, if I could,” Crowley breathes, “Marry you in an instant- _ properly. _Not some mollyhouse marriage that doesn’t hold any weight. Walk into balls with you on my arm and turn down every girl who sought a dance and spend the whole evening spinning you ‘round the floor.” 

“I thought I was abysmal at dancing?” 

“If you could be my husband, I wouldn’t care. We’d trip over each other the whole night, and I’d limp home happily.” 

Ezra squeezes him tightly. “Your joints won’t thank you for that.” 

“Well,” Crowley sighs, and Ezra can very nearly taste the bitterness in that sound, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re stuck to this, you and I. Always loving each other under cover of night.” 

Ezra says nothing for a time, merely brushing his thumb over the soft skin of Crowley’s side. Sometimes he wears one of Ezra’s nightshirts to bed when he stays here, but tonight, despite the chill that’s sleazing it’s way into the room, he’s forgone any clothing, and Ezra is torn between continuing this conversation, or abandoning it in favor of something that won’t leave them both depressed. 

His hand wanders absently, but eventually he does speak, if only because it feels wrong to drop the conversation where Crowley left it. “The world is changing,” he finally whispers, “Progressing, though with great resistance. Maybe women _ will _ get the vote. Maybe then… one day…” 

“Not in our lifetime,” Crowley remarks plainly, dashing the hope Ezra has been trying to build. “But it’s a nice thought.” 

They drift for a long moment, sleepy silence creeping its way over them even as they try to resist, try to stay awake to fully enjoy the feeling of being in one another’s arms. It’s not a rarity, but neither is it the norm, and they both want to enjoy the feeling while they can, under the cover of night and the pretense of drunkenness. 

Eventually, Crowley breathes, “You know why I’m really here, don’t you?” 

Ezra says nothing for a long moment, and Crowley thinks perhaps his partner has succumbed to sleep. But then he hears a soft, strained, “Yes.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Crowley sighs, clinging tighter to Ezra, as if he might be ripped from him at any moment, “But I’m a fool who has to ask anyway.” 

“Anthony,” Ezra sighs. Crowley knows that tone. It’s the one Ezra uses only uses when he’s exasperated, which normally brings Crowley a great amount of mirth, but the use of it now only reinforces the sting of the rejection he knows is coming. 

“I know,” he sighs bitterly. “_I know_.”

“You ask me every year,” Ezra comments. 

“And every year you say _ no _. But I have to ask again because I hope that one day you’ll change your mind.”

“You know we _ can’t, _Crowley.” 

“Just once,” Crowley breathes, on the verge of begging and perfectly fine with that, if that’s what it takes. “Come away with me for the winter _ just once _ . Please, angel. We can be together- just you and me. We can take walks in the garden or sit in the library all day or do… I don’t know, whatever is expected of gentlemen of our status, but we can do it _ together _!” 

“And what happens,” Ezra asks, pulling away enough to look at Crowley. He can scarcely see him, but he knows the look of pain and desperation that’s on his face. It’s probably for the best that he _ can’t _ see it. “What happens when we grow used to that and we forget ourselves? What happens when the winter ends and we return to the city and I’m forced away from you? I don’t think I could take it, having you all to myself for four months only to have to come back here and pretend we are nothing more than business partners. It _ hurts, _Anthony! It hurts that I can only ever have a taste of something that I wish I could have more _ than anything_!” 

“It’s better than not seeing you at all for a third of the year!” He snaps back. 

“_You _ don’t have to leave,” Ezra bites back. It’s an argument they’ve had over and over again, almost to the point it feels rehearsed; as if they’re doing it because it’s expected. Ezra knows exactly what’s going to be said; knows how it will end. Knows he will spend a week near tears at every reminder of his estranged husband, only to have a letter arrive a couple weeks later begging for them to make amends. Knows he will break down and write back immediately, swearing his love and devotion and apologize once again for being too afraid to love Crowley as he deserves. 

“Oh? And what am I supposed to do, hmm? Limp my aching bones all the way across a freezing cold city just so I can sit and do nothing more than _stare_ _at you _from across a bookshop you don’t even actually _need _to make a living?”

Ezra opens his mouth to throw out a heated retort about how Crowley _ invested _in said bookshop, but he loses the spark of ire as quickly as it formed. He doesn’t want to fight; not when their time together is so short. 

His silence seems to worry Crowley, and after several moments the man whispers, “Ezra?” 

“People will talk,” he says weakly, all fight lost. 

“People already talk,” Crowley reminds him, “You’re the awkward second son of a family that finds you inadequate, and I’m a dishonored former naval officer somehow sleeping my way through polite society though no one seems to know _ who _ I’m seducing.”

“If we go away together, they’ll talk about _ us_.”

“Friends holiday together all the time. Misters Young and Dowling frequently travel together.” 

“Yes,” Ezra agrees, “But it’s well known that those two have been best friends since their infancy. Their families were always close. We are associates, in the eyes of others. Nothing more.” 

“We’re business partners. It’s not abnormal for business partners to travel together. Maybe I wanted you to come look at some rare editions that might be worth placing in the library? No one is _ really _ going to care.” He shrugs as best he can from where he’s still lying down and wrapped around Ezra, who hasn’t released him despite their arguing, “It’s not even a _ lie _ ...” he trails off before a desperate, barely audible word slips past his lips. “_Please.” _

Crowley goes silent then, seemingly too tired and weary to continue this fight. 

Ezra takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly in a heavy sigh. He doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to hurt Crowley again, the way he always does. He doesn’t want to be so damned afraid all the time, even if the risk is real. He’s tired of not being with the man he loves; the man who he considers his husband in every way but by law. He’s tired of this same argument- the argument that nearly destroyed them in the first place. Sometimes he thinks Crowley picks the fight just because he’s cruel, but Ezra thinks back to how long they’ve known each other and knows- contrary to what Anthony would have people believe- there’s not a cruel bone in his body. All he wants, all he cares about, is being with Ezra. 

And so Ezra comes to a decision. He knows it’s dangerous, to run off with him to the country where they will undoubtedly lose themselves in their love, and he knows it will hurt to return back to society when the snow melts away, and he’ll have to keep his arms clasped behind his back instead of wrapped around Crowley’s free arm as they walk together. He knows it will sting, when they can’t kiss upon seeing one another, or call each other _ husband _ and _ beloved _ with every breath. It will burn, the emptiness of his bed when Crowley can’t find ways to justify staying every night. 

But it’s better than the bitter chill of loneliness he feels when Crowley leaves for the winter. Ezra is tired of cold winter nights alone with only the scratchy print of Crowley’s letters to offer any sort of comfort and warmth. 

The world is a cruel, unkind and ungiving place. He isn’t sure why he’s not reaching out with both hands and taking what little good he’s found in it. 

That isn’t true. He does know why. But he’s tired of being afraid. He’s tired of sleeping alone. He’s tired of loving in half-measures. He’d been so afraid when they first got together, and though he’s grown more certain of their love and its place in the world, he has never been able to quite shake off the fear of discovery. 

He’s still afraid; he’ll always be afraid. But he is more afraid of being without Anthony. 

“Ask me,” Ezra whispers softly, reaching up to lay a hand on the stubble of Crowley’s cheek. “We’ve quarreled over the matter but you haven’t even asked me properly.” 

As close as they’re pressed, he can hear Crowley swallow, can hear him draw a slow, deep breath as he prepares to ask. He feels the fluttering in his chest as hope swells up against his better judgement. 

“Will you come away with me to the country for the winter, Ezra?” 

Ezra shifts and presses a featherlight kiss to Crowley’s lips. _ “Yes.” _

He swallows the gasp that escapes from Crowley; feels his heart burst with joy in a manner that reminds him of when they’d gone to see the performance of Tchaikovsky’s _ 1812 Overture _and the canons had exploded with revelry and exuberance. 

_ “Really?” _

Ezra kisses him again. “Like you said, I don’t _ need _ the bookshop. And the winter is hard on you; I was cruel to be so dismissive. And I miss you when you’re gone. So let’s run away, for a bit.”

“You mean it?” He speaks as if he can’t believe it. It pains Ezra to know _ he _ is the cause of such doubt. It becomes his intention then, to spend the next four months doing nothing but ensuring Crowley of his love for him.

“Come here, my darling husband,” Ezra breathes, claiming Crowley’s lips with his own. Crowley melts into the kiss, relishing the way Ezra takes command, kissing with purpose and intent. “I will go with you,” he breathes as he kisses a trail down his throat, “I _ am _ going with you.” 

“_Finally-“ _ Crowley breathes as a soft sob of relief escapes him. “Oh, Ezra- how _ happy _you’ve made me-“ 

Ezra silences him with a kiss. “I know, darling. But that’s in the future. Presently, I’d like nothing more than to make love to you, if you’re agreeable?” 

Crowley presses Ezra to him, where he can feel Crowley’s arousal burning hot and hard against him. “_Definitely _agreeable.” 

Ezra pushes Crowley onto his back, then sits up long enough to straddle his thighs before leaning forward and claiming his mouth once more. They shift and press against one another, the friction tantalizing and spurring their desire on. After a few minutes Ezra reaches into his night stand and produces a small vial of oil and holds it up despite knowing Crowley probably can’t see it. “Shall I, or would you like to do the honors?” 

“You,” Crowley breathes, already debauched and wrecked from the simple understanding that this won’t end after next week. That he’ll have this, have _ Ezra, _ with him in the countryside. They’ll be together, day and night, for four months, and it’s a dream Crowley never thought would see the light of day. 

They’ll stay at his family’s estate together through the winter, and he’ll have the warmth of the sea air on his skin and the warmth of Ezra’s love in his heart. 

That warmth presses its way inside Crowley now, to the knuckle, gently and carefully, and he groans at the feeling of Ezra pressing within him. “_ Oh,” _he chokes out, grabbing Ezra’s thigh with one hand and squeezing as Ezra’s finger moves within him, slowly opening him up. 

“There we are, dear boy, easy does it,” Ezra coos as he slowly works in a second finger. Eventually he presses in a third, and when he does Crowley feels tears slip from his eyes, no longer able to keep them contained. He’s fit to burst, his heart and his cock full and overstimulated from the gentle, loving touch of his husband. 

Ezra shifts, and rolls off Crowley, before pulling him close so they are both lying on their sides, Crowley’s back to Ezra’s chest. “I want you like this,” Ezra breathes into Crowley’s ear. “I’m going to take you slowly, fill you up and drive you mad with want. Take my time with you, the way we couldn’t in the garden. The way we _ will have _ for the winter. Yes?” 

“_Yes,” _ Crowley agrees, pressing back against Ezra in a plea to get on with it. Ezra shifts them, adjusting so that he can line up against Crowley, then presses inside, both of them groaning at the intense pleasure of Ezra being buried within him. “Oh, my _ darling; _ my dearest one,” Ezra breathes as he settles for a moment before sliding back and slowly pressing in again, “My husband; you are _ so good. _So perfect for me.” 

Crowley says nothing in response; he rarely does. In the world around them, outside these four walls, Crowley is a talker. He can smile and charm and converse with ease. He doesn’t like it, not really, but it’s a talent he has, and he can put it to use when the need arises. He knows how to entertain, how to amuse and beguile and seduce with words. 

But with Ezra, it’s all turned on its head. With Ezra he doesn’t have to talk, doesn’t have to be smarmy or dance with women who only value the gold in his purse. Here he can fall silent, can be cared for and loved as he is; he can cry in the arms of his lover, overwhelmed by the gentleness in which he is fucked, and he can delight in the soft and soothing praise that, for once, he doesn’t have to work for. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but Ezra does, and of every single person who has ever held an opinion on Anthony J. Crowley, Ezra’s is the only one that has ever mattered. 

Ezra moves within him, each thrust slow and drawn out and accompanied with praise. Love is lavished upon him, within him, and Crowley clings to Ezra’s hand, which has wrapped around his waist, and lets himself be moved, used for his husband’s pleasure. 

“Touch yourself, my darling one,” Ezra instructs, his breathing a little heavier, which tells Crowley he’s getting close. “I want you to come first.” 

Wordlessly, Crowley obeys, But he drags their entwined hands down to grasp his aching cock together. Both groan, and Ezra squeezes approvingly before Crowley begins to move their hands. 

“Oh, my love,” Ezra breathes, confident and content in a way he only ever is when buried within Crowley. He moves a little quicker, a little harder, relishing the feeling of being so deeply connected with his love. 

Crowley’s orgasm hits quickly, and he softly whines, “_Ezra!” _ as he comes, coating their entwined hands. 

Spurred on by this, Ezra picks up the pace and after a few more thrusts, spills within Crowley with a shuddering gasp. 

After a moment, when their breathing slows, Ezra moves to pull out. But with the same bravado that allows Crowley to sink to his knees and fellate Ezra in a public garden, he squeezes now, and demands in a husky, seductive voice, “Stay; just for a few minutes.” 

“We’re a mess,” Ezra protests weakly, ever fretful of ruining the sheets with the messiness of lovemaking. 

“I want to feel you inside me a little longer,” he says, regaining some of the cool he tries to sell like a peddler with snake oil. “You feel good. Like having you so close.” 

He feels Ezra settle against him. “Just for a minute,” he says, that fretful clucking in his voice that reminds Crowley of a mother hen. 

They lay there, entwined together, and satisfied. Crowley begins to doze. He’s disturbed at some point when Ezra slips out of him, causing him to whine despairingly. He hears Ezra tut, then slip out of the bed, leaving him cold and alone. The warmth returns when Ezra returns to the bed, a slightly cool, wet rag in his hand as he gently starts to clean up their mess. Crowley takes the rag and cleans himself up before tossing it aside and reaching for Ezra, who rolls his eyes with a huff, but joins him nonetheless. 

Crowley presses a kiss to Ezra’s lips, and they drift to sleep. 

* * *

Crowley awakens slowly, groaning as he shifts onto his back, feeling pleasantly wrung out and sore in the best way. Without opening his eyes, he reaches for Ezra, intending to pull him close and try to convince him not to open the bookshop for a couple hours. He reaches out, scowling and opening his eyes when he feels nothing but cold sheets. He glares at the empty space next to him, then sits up slightly, noticing a book opened on the pillow next to him. A note rests on top of a poem. 

He takes the book and rests it on his lap before reading the note. 

_ My darling one, _

_ I’ve gone down to get some work done. Come find me. _

_ -E. F. _

_ P.S. Make up the bed, if you’d be so kind. _

He reads the poem next, and he can’t help but grin like a fool. Being called _ darling one _; the sweet command to find Ezra. The domestic request. Being romanced with poetry. It’s everything he wishes he could have on a daily basis, though he knows he should be grateful for what little he’s got. 

With a groan, Crowley moves to get out of bed. He feels a particular stiffness in his hip that’s been slowly creeping in as the days grow colder, and now it’s bad enough that he can’t ignore the little twinges and sharp pains that shoot through his leg. He’s glad to be leaving soon. 

Slowly he grabs his clothing from the small chair he’d draped them over last night and dresses quickly before tidying up the bed as requested. He knows he doesn’t do as good a job as Ezra would like, but considering he intends to drag Ezra back up here as soon as possible to rumple the sheets once more, he isn’t particularly concerned. 

Once finished, he grabs the book and limps downstairs, stopping at the base when he sees Ezra at the counter, bent over slightly as he writes in his ledger. 

He’s so handsome standing there in his usual cream suit, and Crowley has to admit it’s his preferred look for Ezra as well. Ezra tends to wear black when he sneaks off to the mollyhouse to visit Crowley on certain evenings, and though it’s the color Crowley first saw him in, he knows now that Ezra is best suited for the softest, lightest colors. They bring out the blue in his eyes. 

Clearing his throat, Crowley steps forward, and makes a show at rubbing his head so any patrons might assume he’s suffering from a hangover. At the sound, Ezra turns, the light streaming in from the windows behind him making him glow almost ethereally, and Crowley thinks he’s never been more beautiful. 

“Good morning, my darling,” he coos as he steps forward. 

Ah. Alone, then. 

Taking the opportunity while he has it, Crowley takes a pained step forward and catches Ezra’s hand in his free one, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the knuckles. He watches Ezra intently, pleased at the way his lover’s eyes widen, the way he gasps a little at the brazen gesture. The way his mouth falls open in a manner that, were they not at risk of being seen by anyone who might walk in off the street, Crowley would take as an invitation to kiss him. 

“Do you have a poem for every occasion?” He teases instead. 

Ezra wiggles in pride. “I might do.” 

Still holding his hand, Crowley shifts closer, leaning down he can whisper seductively in Ezra’s was: “_Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.” _He recites the whole poem, soft breath and lips brushing against Ezra’s ear as he does so. 

“_If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.” _

Ezra shivers against him. “I am so moved,” he breathes, meeting Crowley’s heated gaze with one to match. This time Crowley takes the opportunity and kisses him. 

It’s soft and easy, the kind of kiss shared between two who have all the time in the world to enjoy one another. 

For once, they do. 

Eventually Crowley releases Ezra, and he watches as the other man flusters for a moment before collecting the book then practically shoving Crowley toward the couch in the back room. 

“Go and sit,” he fusses. “I can see you’re leaning on your cane more than normal, so you need to stay off your feet. Won’t do either of us any good if you’re in pain later. Besides you’re meant to be hungover, so sit there and I’ll fetch you some tea. Go on, now, sit.” 

Crowley does as he’s told and plops down on the old couch with less grace than he’d like to exhibit. Pain shoots through his leg and he groans, rubbing his thigh uselessly in hopes of soothing some of the ache. 

A few minutes later Ezra appears with a tray: tea and toast. It’s a small, scant breakfast, proof that Crowley has finally managed after all these years to convince Ezra that he doesn’t have a large appetite. And so despite Ezra’s penchant for trying to feed every single soul that enters his shop, he’s reigned himself in, and only brought the bare minimum. He places the tray on Crowley’s lap, then moves to walk away. 

“Wait,” Crowley says softly, patting the seat beside him as Ezra turns back to look at him. “Sit with me awhile.” 

“Can’t, I’m afraid,” Ezra says even as he steps closer, bending over to press a kiss to Crowley’s lips. The couch is snugly situated in the corner of the back room, where the curtains are drawn and one must step behind the counter to even see. They’re safe here, for a moment. Before Crowley can truly enjoy the kiss, before he can use his wiles to entice Ezra to join him on the couch, he’s pulling away, straightening his waistcoat as he does. “Too much to do, I’m afraid, if I’m going to be gone for four months.” 

He turns at that, still prattling on as he goes to collect his ledger and returns to the small desk next to the couch to keep writing as he throws all his thoughts out into the open, heedless to whether or not Crowley is listening. 

“I still have several orders to fill, and Lady Becker is coming by at noon to pick up the book I’m repairing for her- it’s her late fathers, poor dear- and oh, I suppose I’ll need to leave a forwarding address at the post office so people know where to contact me- you won’t mind that, I’m sure, darling- but four months is a long time and I’m sure people will need my help between now and when we return so I want to be available if there are any real emergencies-“ 

Crowley listens to him indulgently as he prattles on, then finally: “Ezra?” 

Ezra stops and look up. “Yes?” 

“I love you.” 

A soft smile flickers across Ezra’s lips and he holds out a hand for Crowley to take. He does, squeezing gently. “I love you too, my dear,” he replies as he stands, bends down once more to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, then moves away from him entirely. “Eat,” he instructs, “I’ve plenty to do before we go, and you’re distracting me.” 

At that the bell to the shop chimes and Ezra moves out to the front, greeting whoever has come in to disrupt their morning. But it hardly matters, Crowley thinks as he takes a small bite of toast, the taste of the blackberry jam he favors filling his mouth. It doesn’t matter that Ezra will be busy for the rest of the day. It doesn’t matter that Crowley is going to have to walk back to his London flat in the cold. It doesn’t matter, because Ezra said _ we. _

So simple, so seemingly insignificant, that _ we. _ But it holds a world of opportunity, of promise and of delight for Crowley, because _ he _ isn’t leaving London. _ They _ are. 

Together. 

As he eats his breakfast, Crowley contemplates what might make the most convincing emergency that will get Ezra to close up shop early. He’s eager to get his husband upstairs and give him a taste of what he has planned for him over the next four months. 

Crowley smiles. He’s never been so excited for winter. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic has literally spiraled out of control and I’ve already written a three chapter prequel AND have started a sequel WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!?!?
> 
> A blue-stocking is more or less a woman in the 1800s who was educated and was part of the suffrage movement. It was sometimes used as an insult. There’s a lot more to it than that, but for our purposes that’s all the info you really need. 
> 
> The “trial” Ezra mentions is one of the trials held for men who were accused of being homosexual. Toward the late 1800s they weren’t quite as frequent, but could still occur. The sentence was usually hard labor. 
> 
> A mollyhouse is, very simply put, a gentleman’s club for gay men. Crowley mentions a mollyhouse marriage which was a thing you could do at mollyhouses- two men could get married. It wasn’t legally binding or anything, but it allowed those who wanted to be together the chance to have what society would never allow them to have. 
> 
> They’re very interesting to read about, and one will feature prominently in the prequel to this fic and I _ can’t. fucking. wait._
> 
> The poem Ezra leaves for Crowley that he later recites is _ The Passionate Shepherd to His Love_ by Christopher Marlowe. 
> 
> I guess technically I owe thanks/blame to Lindsey Stirling because her song “Masquerade” is what started this fucking mess. 
> 
> The prequel will be up soon. Probably around Christmas. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
